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Aoife’s lips part, and she averts her gaze, staring at her ragged nails instead. Even from a distance, I can tell they’ve been bitten to the quick. “He’s older than us. A graduate student, I think. He was with me at the museum opening. I didn’t know he was there until—until he found me in the crowd, but he was.”
I take my seat again, my mind racing. “Was he wearing a teal scarf?”
Her eyes dart back up to meet mine. “How did you…?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s been stalking me,” I mutter. “Has he ever mentioned Ben?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. He gives me the shivers, so I don’t usually…I don’t usually talk to him.”
“Why does he give you the shivers?” I press, and Aoife lets out a single rueful laugh.
“Some people, you just know they’re trouble, don’t you? But everyone else loved him. Flocked to him when he bothered to show—which wasn’t all that often, mind, but when he did, the rest of them thought it was grand. Like meeting a celebrity.”
“Do you know the names of the other members of the club?” I say, but Aoife shakes her head.
“A few, maybe. But I was really only there for Dylan.”
We’re getting nowhere again, and my irritation must show, because she leans forward, her hands tugging at her chains.
“I know they have loads of contacts and donors—people who were part of the club when they were students, that sort. I couldn’t say how many of them know about the ABR, or if they’re in the dark, like me. But Guy likes to brag about it—how we’re part of an illustrious group dating back decades, including members of Parliament, lawyers, doctors, journalists, barons, viscounts, and even people inside the palace—”
“People inside the palace?” I echo, alarmed. “Who? Did he ever give you names?”
“No, no one told me anything,” insists Aoife. “I didn’t know about the ABR, I didn’t know about—about the bombing—but…”
She trails off, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. “What?” I say, but it takes her another few seconds to respond.
“Outside of the museum opening,” she says slowly—so slowly that I’m on tenterhooks now, “Guy seemed…happy. Like everything was going according to plan. I thought maybe he was pleased that Kit was there, since he was a new recruit to Fox Rex, and maybe Guy was chuffed to have a member so close to the royal family. But…” She gulps. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, because Guy can be a bit…off, yeah? He said something about…about being glad the appearance hadn’t been canceled. That it was the perfect location, exactly where he wanted it to be—”
Suddenly there’s a buzz behind me, and I glance over at Singh again, only to see him punching a number into his phone. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, and he hastily moves to the door and knocks. A beat later, it opens for him, and as he crosses the threshold, he starts to speak.
“Cooper. It’s Singh. I need a list of staff at—”
The door shuts behind him, and for a moment, Aoife and I stare at each other, both of us confused into silence. I want to ask what this means—what clues Singh noticed that went over my head—but Aoife’s eyes are overflowing again, and she tugs at her restraints like she wants to reach across the table for my hand.
“Evangeline, please,” she begs, softer now. “You have to believe me. I’d never hurt anyone—I swear it. I’ll admit, I’m not overly fond of the royals and all they stand for, but it’s not personal. And I like you. I like Kit. I’m not a murderer. I’d never—I’d never—”
She’s sobbing now, every bit as hard as Rosie was in Kit’s sitting room. I should comfort her, maybe. Offer her words of assurance, promise to get to the bottom of it. But all I can see as I watch her are the bloody remains of Ingrid’s body, and my father lying broken in a hospital bed, a single complication away from death.
“The ABR protested outside Sandringham the day we met,” I say, and even to my ears, I sound hollow. “Were you part of that?”
“N-no,” she hiccups, her watery eyes round, and even though I don’t want to believe her, I think I do. “I arrived maybe an hour before Dylan suggested we go into town. And once we were there, he said there was an ice cream shop we had to try—that’s why we went in. He suggested it. He suggested the whole thing.”
She sniffs loudly, and her restraints rattle again as she tries to raise her hand. With a wince, she rubs her nose against her shoulder instead, leaving a streak of tears and mucus across her sweatshirt. I watch her, feeling strangely detached from her overt show of emotion, and at last I ask my final question.
“Do you know who shot me and Kit?”
Aoife’s mouth opens again, and this time there’s no mistaking her shock for anything but real. “I—it was both of you? I thought…the tabloids said it was only you.”
“He threw himself in front of me,” I say coldly. “And I want to know who almost killed him.”
Aoife is silent for several seconds, but her hands are shaking now, and I know that finally, finally I’ve found a secret.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “But…that morning, Dylan was texting someone, and he left early. Really early. Said he had a few more gifts to buy in town, but…but I peeked out the window to watch him go, and…he had…he had his rifle slung over his…”
Her face crumples as she chokes on the rest of her words, but she’s already said enough. While this small bit of circumstantial evidence is just one more stone to add to the mountain that should—but doesn’t—prove Ben’s involvement, it’s the piece of the puzzle that finally shows me the full picture.
Ben, who bugged my room at Sandringham, heard Kit telling Maisie where we’d be walking that morning. And there’s no doubt in my mind that Ben sent Dylan to do his dirty work for him.
